


The Chimes of Big Ben

by abbichicken



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hotels, London, Male-Female Friendship, Mystery, Silly, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a pressing assignment for Joan. In London. Will Watson finally find out 'What happened in London?' Will she learn anything at all about Sherlock's past? Will Irene crop up? Will it be raining in England? The answer to at least one of these questions is YES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chimes of Big Ben

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hapakitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/gifts).



It's a beautiful day in London, Watson notes, the moment the pilot announces they're about to land at Heathrow, waking her up from an absolutely miserable attempt at jet-set sleeping. The sun is shining yellowness all over lines of terraced houses, interspersed with sports stadiums and grand historic places that could all be Downton Abbeys. Cars gleam silver as they dash down motorways. Joan finishes the warm whisky, or what's left of it - it's mostly whisky-flavoured water, which doesn't at all have the same effect as neat on the rocks. It's not quite the same, alcohol on the flip side of sunrise, but this close to Christmas, the queues at border control are, she hears, horrific, so she'd like any dampener on the stress of that she can find.

The plane circles, and Joan takes everything beneath them in all over again. She wouldn't tell Sherlock this, not yet, but one of the great pleasures of having spent so long with him is the way in which his eye for detail has rubbed off on her.

Take the man next to her - or, the other side of the aisle from her, because this is, thank goodness, a business class flight. Joan noted at some point, before falling asleep herself, that he was a father, because he looked at a picture of his two small children, each with hair as bright red as his own, before take-off. That he does this flight frequently, because the flight attendants greeted him by name, and his gin and tonic was handed to him without his even having to ask. He clearly drinks a G&T on a fairly regular basis, as, moments after sipping it, his face becomes as red as his hair. That he - but does this really _matter_? This is one of the great problems with having spent so much time with Sherlock: every detail of everything is noticed, now. She can't help it. Her mind is becoming rammed with notes, observations, contemplations, facts, figures, theories and possibilities.

It appeals to her, of course it does, or she wouldn't be so keen to stick with Sherlock in a professional capacity when this companionship expires next week. It appeals in the way that medical study did. Regulating her sleep into the tightest of schedules to allow her to study at the times when her brain was most receptive. Ensuring she socialised enough to maintain her humanity (Sherlock has yet to appreciate the worth of this skill, but she's working on it), so that she'd be able to better relate to patients, and to her colleagues, as she moved through one department and another. Seeing her family enough to communicate her success. Perhaps that one hadn't balanced itself out as well as she'd have liked it to, but still. Detective work is a 24/7 business. It uses every area of the mind, and occasionally of the body, as well.

Everything she knows is so often relevant, useful. It was like that with medicine, at the beginning. When you knew everything about something, when you could be confident, and expert. But the more she worked, the more she found there was to know. And with medicine, nothing could be definite. There were so many cases for which there was no solution. So many incidents with no explanation. Of course, of course Joan would rather not have left the profession in the way that she did, but even before that she had wondered how long she would last as a surgeon. The cases she could not fix, could not _heal_ , had begun to dominate her brain.

Sherlock is good for her brain in this way: everything he takes on, he solves. He fixes. Even if he doesn't do it alone (even if he isn't as alone as he thinks he is). But...in other ways, he is exhausting. He is in need of constant occupation. He is an addict, and one who doesn't willingly attend his meetings, at that (although since Watson began to cajole him into using them as a way of studying people, he's become easier to get out the door). The way things have been, recently, it's been feeling more and more as if there's no way she can just, move on to her next case, be someone else's companion. It didn't help when even her own mother came up with those comments, even if they were based on Sherlock's supposed play for her ears.

He's good company. He has a heart, even if he's largely disinclined to use it. But then you get moments like the one this morning, where, suddenly, he'll whip the carpet out from under your feet and make ridiculous demands without giving any kind of full explanation. Indeed, Sherlock rarely gives any full explanation for anything she'd actually like to know. It's as if, if he _actually_ introduced you to his family, or his past, or any truth about him at all, he'd burst like a soap bubble.

________________the moment this morning____________________

"What's this?"

"Honestly Watson, I don't know why you'd ask me when you have in your very hands the answer to your question."

"Perhaps it's because what looks very much like a seat on a flight to London this evening with my name on it cannot possibly be what it seems, for you and I have a meeting to attend tonight. Furthermore, I know you won't fly, so I'm assuming that this is a flight you intend me to take alone, and I don't have any business whatsoever in England, so, as you can perhaps now understand, it is illogical for me to assume that this ticket is everything it appears to be."

"Oh, _really_." Sherlock says, and spins a neat circle on his right heel, ending up point perfect where he'd started out. "Just because _you_ don't have any business there, it doesn't mean there isn't any business to be had. Quite the contrary. I have a _most_ important mission for you to complete. Extremely important. Paramount, one might say."

Joan tries extremely hard not to give any impression of intrigue or curiosity. Aside from the fact that this simply can't happen, it's best not to encourage him.

"Paramount," Joan repeats, with a magnificently wearisome frown.

"Utterly. Now, with regards to this meeting of mine, I have, of course, thought of this. You'll recall your good friend and mine, Alfredo? He and I have an arrangement for tonight, and then I intend to go straight to the station where I will spend the night doing some very important work. I will update you regularly, and provide all manner of photographic, video, and physical evidence as required. Yes?"

"Your father is paying me to -"

"I don't want to hear another word about my father."

"There are rules about what I can -"

"I know the rules. You will break precisely none of them. Now remember what I said, Watson. _Paramount_."

"You'll need to message me every two hours. And I want to speak to you on the phone morning and night."

"Yes, mum."

"I need you to be respectful of my guidelines if you want -"

Sherlock holds up a hand. "I jest. I understand. I've done everything you've asked me to so far, haven't I? More or less? Far be it from me to question the ways of a method that has proven itself worthwhile. Please. You'll return before tomorrow is over, thanks to the magic of time differences. This is by far the most efficient way to travel. There and back again. This is my suggestion: don't you think I've already ascertained every little detail it will take to get you to acquiesce?"

"I'm sure you have."

"And so, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Acquiesce."

Watson looks again at the ticket in her hand, and groans. It's just a short trip. Barely a day away. He does seem to have taken this very seriously indeed, and, if it's important, well...."I do. Providing you...but, of course you will. But this better be important, Sherlock. And for future reference, it would be nice if you would tell me exactly why things were important, before involving me in them."

"Duly noted. You won't need much. I've booked you into an excellent hotel."

 _That's something,_ Watson thinks, as she makes her exit first, without pushing for a last word. This confuses Sherlock, who has misassumed that she is the type to enjoy a last word. Or perhaps her absence of last word is, in itself, having it. Either way, he appreciates the fact that she keeps him on all his metaphorical toes.

_____________upstairs, whilst packing the smallest of overnight bags_________________

"Bell? It's Watson."

"You've been spending too long around him. Your name's Joan, and mine is Marcus. First names that much of a stretch?"

"I like the sound of professionalism - is that so wrong? Anyway, I don't have long...so, sorry, I need to ask you a favour."

She hears Bell sigh, and her mind detours for a moment to wish that she'd time to talk more. She's developing quite the fondness for Bell - Marcus. But now is not the time.

"I have to go away for the night, and most of tomorrow. It might be longer: I'm flying overseas. A brief trip. I wanted to ask that you focus on the Acton case. With Sherlock."

Bell sighs again, more of a huff, even. "The suicide? That's hardly my business, it's just a standard -"

"He's sure there's more to it. Indulge him. If nothing else comes up. Call him about 9 p.m. I know you're on duty. Come on, it's easy enough to let him have access to a few swabs and so on, right?"

"You mean you want me to babysit him."

"I would never use that sort of terminology. But, in the absence of a better word, yes. Keep him busy for me."

"Worried he might run off without your excellent consultation skills?"

"Something like that."

"I'll see what I can do. You owe me, okay?"

"Of course. Dinner, if you like. You choose the place. Next week." Watson can hear she's caught him on the hop, and she smiles to herself, satisfied.

"I...er...yeah. Yeah."

Bell hangs up abruptly, but Watson is satisfied she's done enough to sort out both dinner, and Sherlock.

___________________back in the now, and the London_____________________

Joan hasn't travelled much. A short trip to Mexico with a girlfriend after exams. A student conference in Geneva, but she never saw more than the inside of the taxi and of her reasonable, but completely standard, hotel, thanks to the blizzard that enveloped the city for the duration of her stay. It's not that she hasn't wanted to visit more cities, more countries, mountains and deserts and culture and all, more that if you want to be a surgeon, you're not going to leave yourself with a great deal of time (or money) with which to see the world. Plus, when you live in New York City, you couldn't ask for a better place to get the Cliff Notes on anywhere.

The Cliff Notes on London never mentioned how incredibly _nice_ it could look, though. The airport is a pleasant surprise, seems quiet for early December, and, having received word that Sherlock is well and good, she takes full advantage of the showers and coffee in the arrivals lounge, before taking a seat in the far corner, as she'd agreed she would when she was ready to leave for the city.

Sure enough, a pleasant-faced woman with striking red hair approaches her, moments after Watson has arranged herself. "Hi!" she offers, in a plain, bright tone. "I believe we have a mutual friend. I've a car for you outside."

"Our mutual friend..." Watson says, hoping to prompt a little more identification from her, just on the off-chance this is a mission which might involve some kind of unpleasant kidnap.

"Mr. Holmes. Scruffy type, beady eyes. I'm to take you to The Academy, on Gower Street."

"Ah, yes," Watson says. "The Academy." She's come this far, she's tired, the woman seems nice enough with precisely no agenda...why aggravate with questioning? She hasn't come all the way to London to be prickly and questioning.

 _The Academy_. Academy of what? Would-be detectives? Academy of Art? Royal Academy of...something? Royal Academy of Wizardry and Witchcraft? Watson can't find a specific meaning for the name, nor can she recall a mention of it before. Is this something she ought to have known about? Would it really have been so difficult to give her the details beforehand? Then again, she didn't ask for them. She could have done that.

 _Just admit to yourself that you like an adventure, Joan..._ she chides herself, gently. It's true, she does.

The door to the The Academy is in a line of terraced houses, many of which are hidden behind swathes of scaffolding. Watson frowns at them, wondering if they're open, wondering if they're the scene of some kind of crime, if in fact there is no sleeping to be done here because she's here to investigate something terrible, but she opens a wide glass door and steps into a small, leather-suited green lobby. The Academy is not any of the things she had presumed it might be. It appears, rather, to be a fine hotel. Would it have been so difficult for Sherlock to mention that detail to her? For a man so concerned with minutiae, he's a terrible habit of omitting what's important.

There's an exceptionally well-suited man at the desk who responds immediately to her arrival, standing, and holding out his hand. "Joan Watson, I presume?" he says, and the directness makes Joan flinch, just slightly. She feels a touch underdressed; she hadn't expected this to feel quite so...upmarket, and, despite showering at arrivals, the tang of flight is still all over her.

"Yes," she offers, taking a breath and stepping forwards. His handshake is strong: brief, yet reassuring.

"Your room is all ready. It's an honour to have you. I sincerely hope you had a good journey?"

"It was...it was fine, thank you."

The politeness is vast, and whether it's her sleepiness or the amount of new things that have come to mind all at once, Joan has a very strong sense of things having moved too quickly for her to read them. She tries to assess the man, to see if there's anything that might be worth noting. She's forgotten how she usually behaves in these circumstances, _how do you check into a hotel without assessing every little detail? What level of jeopardy am I in, if any?_ \- but perhaps that's because she isn't sure what this is - is it only her, being who she is and what she does, doing something for a client because she can, because it matches up with a goal she's had for long enough, or is this closer to what she and Sherlock have been doing together: is there something to solve, here? Is there that much of a difference between the two any more?

His man's brass name tag determines he's the hotel manager, Ngô Chau, and he's a certificate, mahogany framed on the wall, rewarding him as manager of the year in the chain the hotel belongs to. Dated 2010, so he's been in this position for some time. His hair has recently been cut, and his suit is freshly pressed. A cup of coffee sits, cold, you can tell by the ripples on its murky surface, on the desk in front of him. Nothing to be 'deduced' from any of these things though, surely. His behaviour might seem overly polite, and it might be strange that he knows a guest by name before she's even walked in the door, but given that Joan's no further experience of British hotels, and that she didn't make the arrangements here herself, that is nothing at all to go on.

 _Stop trying to make mountains_ , Joan says to herself, but it's easier said than done. All she's had of late is an increasing amount of mountains. All climbed and descended, to stretch the metaphor, but this time, it's just her, and a considerable lack of information.

 _An adventure_ , the voice in the back of her head whispers.

Up two flights of hot, narrow stairs, and into a huge room, much larger than any the building has thus far suggested it might house. A great, high ceiling, and broad Georgian windows. A bed, a bed, a bed that looks absolutely perfect. Joan investigates no further, and does nothing more than kick her shoes off and drop her bag on the floor before flopping right on into said bed, abandoning all her ideas of keeping one eye open at all times. Sleep happens immediately, and is utterly welcome.

______________somewhere in the middle of this dreamless sleep________________

The telephone rings, a loud, old sound that fills the entire room and doesn't so much wake Joan from sleep as yank her out of it by the scruff of the neck. "Hello?" she says, whilst simultaneously clearing her aeroplane-dry throat, so it comes out rather like "Fffszhwhoom?"

"Ah, Watson," Sherlock says. "Just wanted to let you know I'm completely clean. I'd expected you to have rung me by now, but perhaps you didn't sleep so well as you might have during the flight, so you came into your - beautiful, I hope - room and crashed out immediately."

"Something like that..." Watson says, performing the mental equivalent of wiping condensation from a window. The view is not much clearer.

"Are you enjoying London? Perhaps you haven't seen much yet. Regardless, your mission. I shall be brief, in case we are being bugged. You'll meet your handler in the British Museum at midday."

Watson squints at the grand old grandfather clock in the corner of her room. It's curiously difficult to tell the time, it's so grand, but she establishes that it's coming up for 4 a.m. Excellent. Great. "How was the meeting?" she asks.

Sherlock exhales, and uses his best 'humouring you' voice. "Delightful. Eye-opening. Alfredo and I had a whale of a time. You'll notice, next time you check your phone, that I kept my promise of regular contact. But don't let me keep you up. You'll want to be awake for breakfast. Eight on the dot I'll have them bring it up. Goodbye!"

And then he's gone.

He does, Watson thinks, at least sound like a Sherlock who's doing well. Midday at the British Museum, she thinks, etching it in that mental condensation that's rapidly creeping back across her mind.

She dozes for a while, and then a siren, unfamiliar, wakes her up. Blue flashing lights illuminate the room.Watson lies flat on her back for a moment, making an assessment, but she's barely got past "I'm in London" when the lights disappear, and the siren fades. She hauls herself to the window, and surveys Outside. And wishes she'd done so before, perhaps, for, whilst it's a standard enough street scene, it's red buses, and early bird commuters, and both immediately recognisable, and completely different from the sort of scene she's used to. 6 in the morning but plenty of activity. Opposite her hotel is a huge, square, once-white building, which declares itself, in large black letters across the front, The London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Well, if that doesn't sound like one of the most interesting places going... Might explain why Sherlock picked this hotel.

There are lights on in the school. A couple of lab assistants are visible, suited up and busy with tubes and files. Watson can't see so clearly, but she makes herself a cup of coffee and sits there for a time, watching everyone, wondering if she's looking for something in particular, or if this is just a chance to make herself at home.

At seven, she decides to take a run before breakfast. Chau is, once more, at the reception desk. "Good morning!" he greets her, brightly. "I can recommend you a route if you're going out for a run?"

Watson accepts, in case it's another one of these peculiar clues, and he directs her out and around a number of squares, picturesque in a sense, blue plaques everywhere dictating their history. It isn't the fastest run Watson's ever done, but it's nice to be outside. London feels more familiar to her than she'd imagined, for reasons she can't pin down: the route is easy to follow, and the streets are delightfully uneven. Good for the ankle stability, she thinks, narrowly avoiding slippery death on a tree root. She weaves around people easily, finding the traffic surprisingly willing to live and let live, rather than seeing her as target practice. The pre-dawn chill blasts away any remaining jetlag, and, so cheered is she by this experience that, when it starts to rain, she smiles, because that's the city she's so often been told to expect - grey, old and damp.

Running is the same everywhere. Whether it's a warm-up for a stressful day, a way to straighten out the brain after a good night out, or just a quick way to get a good angle of an area, it's something Watson delights in.

By the time she's back in her room, flushed with exertion and feeling much more alive and awake, there's a vast silver trolley awaiting her. The bed is remade, and a pot of coffee and vase of flowers sit on a glass table. A gold-trimmed chaise longue, decorated with a selection of newspapers, sets off the scene nicely.

This _is_ nice, Watson thinks. She showers before investigating the trolley.

It's as if it had been prepared for her by someone who knew her extremely well. Of course, her tastes in breakfast are hardly revolutionary, but it's quite something to be confronted with everything you'd pick from a buffet, no more and no less, right down to the perfectly boiled eggs.

_____________The British Museum___________________

The remainder of the morning is spent in the museum. Watson figures that, if she has to come here anyway, there's no harm in taking a little longer to see the mummies, to start with, and then everything else that she can possibly fit in between breakfast and midday.

Bell texts her, around about half eleven. _Dinner AND DRINKS for this. He's exhausting._

 _Deal._ Watson replies, with a smile that she doesn't include in her immediate reply. She's rather looking forward to that dinner. There's a professionalism and quick wit to Bell that she's very much looking forward to getting...beneath.

But back to today. With no idea of who to look for, nor where exactly to be, all Watson can do is be conspicuous, whilst doing her best to blend in. And as far as waiting goes, this is as good a room for it as any.

On the dot of midday, she's waiting in a gallery, browsing shelves of books with faded golden titles, wishing she could read them all.

"I hope you're enjoying your stay in our little capital?" a dry, droning voice intones, somewhere above Watson's head. She wheels around and looks up. A tall, corpulent, grey-faced man looks down at her. His eyes are wide, and sad, and tired.

"Very much," Joan replies. "This is quite a museum." As she speaks, her eyes and brain catch up with each other, and the resulting fact is _extraordinary_.

"If you like that kind of thing, I suppose it is." His voice defines boredom, which seems, to Joan, to be completely at odds with everything that is in here. Surely, whatever your thing, it or its history lies in one of these glass cases, or on the infinite high shelves.

"You're...related to..." She can't keep her observation to herself, it's so startling.

"Sherlock, yes," the man says, with a soft roll of his pale eyes. "Mycroft Holmes. Elder brother. Administrator, of no interest to anyone." He holds out a hand, which Watson duly shakes.

The handshake is as limp and dull as its owner. The contrast between brothers is ludicrous.

"This is what I believe my brother is after," Mycroft says, handing over a regular, cream-coloured C6-sized envelope. It's thin, can't contain more than a sheet of paper at most. Across the middle it reads _For the Attention of Mr. Sherlock Holmes ONLY_ in a fine, curling navy ink.

"Do you know what's inside?" Watson asks, taking it and sliding it carefully into the back pocket of her handbag, without taking any further time to examine it. _Could this not have been Fed-Exd? What kind of note could possibly be worth travelling this far for?_

"My lips are sealed," Mycroft replies, with the least amount of humour anyone has ever applied to those words.

"I am told," Mycroft says, "that you will enjoy the latest exhibit. I am to inform you that you will find much food for thought amidst the antiquities within. You must be sure to visit it. Right. I think I've fulfilled my duties..."

"Wait!" Joan says, interrupting, as the man begins to offer parting words. "Is that all? You know, I've been working with your brother for quite some time, and I'd love to know a little more about him. And about you, or London, or whatever you might wish to discuss. I don't suppose you're free for dinner tonight?"

"I'm afraid I'm really not the 'dinner' sort," Mycroft says, the dourness never once leaving him. "Besides, as I understand it, your dining affairs are all taken care of."

"I don't..." but Joan is tired of not understanding things, and would rather not continue that. She tries a new tack. "Is there anything you'd like me to pass on to Sherlock, for you?"

Mycroft tips his head to one side, and then the other. "No. I don't interest him at all."

"Then is there anything you'd like to know about him?"

"I like to know he's still alive, and that he's got something to keep him busy. I know both those things, so...that'll do." Mycroft shrugs. His face remains inscrutable. "Now, I will say goodbye. Keep the envelope safe. It was nice to meet you, Ms. Watson."

Joan wants to ask so much of him, she really does, but, once more, she resists. "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Holmes," she says, and, with a nod, he is gone, and she is just there by the mummified cat, wondering an infinite of things.

As she wonders, her phone vibrates in her pocket.  
 _Quite different, aren't we?_ is all it says.

Watson continues around the museum. The exhibition is, as Mycroft had suggested, excellent. Of course in NYC she's every opportunity under the sun to see all things great and historical and cultural, and yet there's something about museums in your home city that makes the experience of exploring them completely different from that of seeing those elsewhere.

There are things she's wondered of for years, and beautiful, fascinating tales accompanying them, and the simple joy of being in London with no more to do than to appreciate things is easily embraced.

When she's finished, there's time to spare. As she looks at leaflets at the museum entrance, trying to decide what one thing she ought to fit in, she is approached once more by someone with strikingly red hair. Whilst gingerness may not be uncommon in London, and the fashion for dyed hair seems strong, this must be a little more than coincidence. She gets in first this time.

"Have we a scruffy mutual friend?" she asks.

"If you're referring to Mr. Holmes, then yes, we do indeed. My name is Lestrade. Holmes and I worked together, for a time. While back. I've not seen him since, but we...correspond, occasionally. Remote consultation, he calls it."

"Am I here to provide some form of...direct consultation, then?" Is there more to this after all? She's half-hopeful, half-wondering what could be done in a matter of hours.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Nothing like that. You ought to have received everything you're here for, as far as I know about it. No, this is a...bonus. I hear you've always wanted to take in the Thames, Buckingham Palace, to hear the chimes of Big Ben. I'm here to offer you a tour."

Watson, surprised to find she's slightly disappointed that there doesn't seem to be a mission-based element to this encounter, tries now to recall if she's ever told Holmes about these things. She can't remember having done so, but then, he doesn't always need telling. "What else did Sherlock tell you?"

"He told me to tell you that if you want to know more about him and his past, all you need to do is to open your eyes in London."

"Did he now... Any idea what he meant by that?"

"None whatsoever. Still. It's good advice for any visitor." Lestrade directs Watson to a rather handsome car parked just around the corner from the museum.

Not wanting to randomly jump into any more cars - because you don't want to set weird precedents, you really don't - Watson is about to text Holmes for confirmation. However, as she extracts her phone, it buzzes in her hand, right on cue. _Sherlock, you creep me out with that,_ she says, to the phone, although Lestrade offers half a smile in indirect response, can't help overhearing as he waits for her.

_Hp uv time 2 tour. L is gd man. LDN worth cing._

He's right on all counts. Lestrade is an extremely good man, with a fine sense of humour. He gives Watson all manner of anecdotes about the city, about the things he's seen and the cases he's worked on. He mentions Sherlock, or certainly doesn't avoid discussing him, but he doesn't give any...real information about him. Nothing Watson hadn't already imagined.

"It sounds as if he was happy enough," Watson says, at the end of a tale of Sherlock's ability to solve an entire case based on a suspect's having dirty knees.

"I wouldn't say happy, so much as busy. But I found him very likeable. Although I believe there aren't many as can say the same I think you, perhaps, do too?"

Watson nods. "He's been...a change. But I thought it was Gregson he worked for, at Scotland Yard?"

"He did some things for us both. You may be surprised to know that Tobias and I don't...didn't ever quite see eye-to-eye. I think Sherlock rather enjoyed playing us off against each other, as I'm sure you can imagine. Occasionally I think of the current situation as the divorce - Gregson got Sherlock, but I got to keep London."

"You feel you got the better deal?" Watson catches a glimpse down Whitehall. "Some days I've thought I'd rather be anywhere in the world but in the same building as Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade smiles, and turns onto Parliament Square. "He does have that effect sometimes, doesn't he? I hope for your sake you're never involved in any case involving a tuba. That was a testing time. Anyway, I'm glad to hear he's got colleagues again. When he spends too long alone, that's when...well, I'm sure you can imagine. Let's cease discussing our mutual friend, though, for, as I'm sure you've noticed, it's about to strike the hour. Let me wind the window down."

The chimes of Big Ben sound precisely like they do on the radio, television, or cinema, but Watson allows herself a deep breath of cold, damp, fume-filled London air, and to appreciate the sounds of the centre of somewhere new. Whatever's inside this damn envelope, she's increasingly glad she came this far to get it.

____________________back at The Academy____________________________

"Ms. Watson," Chau at the front desk says, the moment Joan returns. Is he ever off duty, or does he simply anticipate Joan's arrival? "I have your reservation details for dinner tonight. A car will come for you at 8 o'clock, if that's agreeable? The meal will finish by 9.30pm, and the car l then take you directly from the restaurant to the airport. You've already been checked in for your flight this evening."

Enough time for a bath in the marble tub that's large enough to swim a stroke in. Watson can't remember the last time she took the time for a bath - usually, it's time that might be infinitely better used elsewhere, but here, it would be rude not to. She puts CNN on, just to check she hasn't missed anything important in the last few hours, that the envelope doesn't contain some kind of secret codes or something that's started an international search. She hasn't missed anything at all.

Dinner is exquisite - a modern, Michelin-starred restaurant which makes no issue at all of her dining alone. The tasting menu has been pre-ordered for her, and the bill already taken care of. She's seen this restaurant reviewed, read the buzz about it and heard it mentioned enough, yet she didn't imagine she'd ever get around to eating here, never mind that it would come about so quickly. This has been a most peculiar day, not least because she's ticked off a great deal of things she'd wanted to see, and to do, without having to try or to plan a single one of them. And all for the sake of this envelope.

She slides her hand into the pocket of her bag, to check it's still there. It is. It still feels so slight. What could this possibly be? A birth certificate? Some kind of essential documentation? A letter? What is that the post won't take?

She removes it, turns it over, and over. She holds it up to the light, in case some pattern or detail might reveal itself, but none does.

It's only an envelope, with a single piece of paper inside, Sherlock's name on the front.

She returns it to the bag, and, as she finishes up the most exquisite parfait imaginable with a relish that only just stops short of plate-licking, she runs back over the last 24 hours in London. Sherlock's plain, quiet brother. The hotel. The museum. Lestrade. The sights, the sounds. The strange things she saw...which have come to nothing. Or have they? Will it make sense when she returns? Is this some kind of test? It better not be some kind of test.

Did she learn anything about Sherlock from any of this at all? Perhaps. Perhaps he'll explain when she gets back. Or...perhaps it doesn't matter so much. The fact that his brother is so...so...well, different, and that Sherlock made no play about her meeting him, simply made it happen. That he's sent her here, that he had this transaction take place somewhere clearly important to him...perhaps he isn't answering her questions in the normal way, but is filling in gaps nonetheless.

The flight back is delayed two hours, but Joan doesn't object, because the drinks are free and the 'crisps' in the lounge are exceptional, and, apparently, infinite. She consumes both in fairly large quantities, and allows herself to observe everyone else around her, without agenda, creating stories, motives, backgrounds for them all.. She texts Sherlock an update on the flight, and he replies with _gt net 4 this c u 22:18_ , which, of course (because Sherlock had taken into account changing weather conditions and had the presence of mind to book a car to collect her from JFK) she does.

London shines and gleams as much in the rain as it did in the sun when she arrived. That was only yesterday, and yet it feels like weeks ago. Sated with fine food and drink, and exhausted, but thrilled by the barrage of experiences she's packed in in just one day, tonight Watson has no trouble sleeping all the way home.

_____________________skip to the end__________________________

"Mission complete?" Sherlock asks, the moment Joan steps into the living room.

"Here," Joan says, handing over the envelope before she's even put her bag down. "Sherlock, I don't understand what it was that could possibly be so important that you had me cross continents to bring it to you, but I hope it was worth - what?"

Sherlock has thrown the envelope, unopened, straight into the fire.

"Do you just hate envelopes?" Watson yells, beyond frustrated.

"There was nothing in the envelope. I just thought you could use a holiday. That's all. I see it's done you the power of good - you're radiating inspiration, learning, discovery, adventure. It was a very short adventure, of course, because I need you here for the sober thing, _very_ important, but with your need to know more things about my past burningly obvious even when you so kindly refrain from questioning me, I wanted to give you some idea of what I might have been, so that you might better appreciate that now, even for an addict, I am not, Watson, doing so very badly. Because I am, you see, _interesting_. And so are you."

"But the..." Watson begins, wanting to mention the details, the many strange things she noticed on her journey. Can they really be so inconsequential? Sherlock's idea of a...joke? Of being clever? Just a nod to the fact that they have curiosity in common?

"I...really don't know what to say..." she says. _Stop suddenly burning things! Thank you for a most peculiar 36 hours. Thank you for sharing things about you that weren't any of the things I wanted to know, which didn't enlighten me at all? Thank you for the beautiful room, for the trip to the museum, for dinner, for the...business class lounge...any idea if there's a job going in the School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine?_ None of those sound quite right, and yet, in that train of thought, Watson catches sight of the possibility that this really might have been Sherlock trying to give her the break she's often wanted, but never would have taken. "No," she continues, folding her coat over her arms, "I've no idea what to say to you at all."

Sherlock decides she oughtn't to say anything at all in that case. He brandishes a sheaf of print-outs in a wide gesture, instead. "All well." He smiles, his best smile, the one that says _sure there's a way to segue from this to the important things without offending anyone but I really can't be bothered to spare the brainpower to define it, so I'm going to move on and trust that you won't hassle me_. "Now, what I'd really like is for you to take a look at these pictures of Acton's corpse. I've been through the obvious, of course, but there's a rash just _here_ that poses some very interesting questions..."

As Watson draws nearer to get a better look at the blotches, she looks first at Sherlock, and his considerable enthusiasm for something that has no place in a normal living room. There's something to be solved here, and it's something she can really help with. In this creaky, wonky, sprawling place, she has, just as her mother said, found her spark again. It's too early to say how this partnership's going to work out, too early to say if they'll be able to work together long term, not to mention the fact that Watson knows well enough that with any addict, never mind with any Sherlock, you can never be certain of anything. Nonetheless, the fascination, the spontaneity and all signs thus far would lead anyone to conclude that, together, Watson and Holmes are a fine force to be reckoned with.


End file.
